


Composing

by ShippingEverything



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, POC Enjolras, Selective Muteness, Sign Language, also enjolras is called 'ange' several times, courf says 'enj' but r hears 'ange' and honestly its really fitting, im a hearing girl with little to no sign knowledge pls forgive me, mostly bc i prefer 'ange' to 'apollo' but also bc r misunderstands enj's nickname in the first bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5030104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippingEverything/pseuds/ShippingEverything
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>And when the man spits “And if you have to fucking ask, it's probably </i>wrong<i>,” with the conviction of a thousand martyrs and the passion of a politician about promises they can’t keep, Grantaire falls a little bit in love.</i></p><p>Or: Enjolras does slam poetry and Grantaire pines</p>
            </blockquote>





	Composing

**Author's Note:**

> one day i woke up and half this fic was already written, relatively coherently, on my laptop. i have no memory of starting it, but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless

When Grantaire first sees him—onstage stringing beautiful words together to preach about racism and sexism and homophobia to the mostly white, mostly male, mostly straight, mostly apathetic coffee shop crowd—he’s radiant. The crowd isn’t taking this man—this _Apollo_ , as the sign up sheet and the announcer had declared—seriously, barely even paying him the attention he deserves, nay, _demands_. He’s wearing tattered red fingerless gloves and his nails are painfully electric blue and the deeply dark roots of his thick, curly hair are _clearly_ visible, and when the man spits “And if you have to fucking ask, it's probably _wrong_ ,” with the conviction of a thousand martyrs and the passion of a politician about promises they can’t keep, Grantaire falls a little bit in love.

Grantaire is here for Jehan, here to take pretty pictures of hir and support and snap and cheer for his friend, but he ends the night with more shots of the fury on the face of the short black man with the big hair and the strong voice than anyone else.

When he steps down, Grantaire feels like he’s both run a thousand miles and could jump up and fly if he wanted. He walks to the counter and says, “That was something,” asking without asking.

“Yeah, he sure is,” The barista smiles, her eyes twinkling, “That’s Ange, he’s our favorite regular.”

Grantaire hums consideringly then drops the $20 he was going to spend on overpriced coffee into the tip jar. He doesn’t need it anymore, he has a different kind of buzz.

* * *

The second time Grantaire sees Ange, he’s at the same coffee shop, but not on poetry night.

He gives his order to the freckly barista and when he get’s his double shot vanilla espresso, it’s not the same calloused hand that took his money. He looks up and sees Ange, and his heart skips two beats.

“Oh hey,” Grantaire says, trying to act like he hasn’t practiced what to say, “You were at poetry night.”

His hair has been redyed, the blond shockingly pale against his dark skin, and he looks startled. His nametag says _Enjolras_.

Enjolras lifts a notebook that says _Do you sign?_ in the same thin, messy scrawl as his nametag.

Grantaire lifts his hands and signs **Decently** , because his friend Bossuet is has hearing aids but they’re broken almost constantly, so he’s learned how to communicate at a semi-fluent level.

Enjolras beams like Grantaire just gave him the world on a string. Grantaire’s heart swoops. **You’re Jehan’s friend, right?** He signs, **He showed me some of your pictures, they were nice**.

Grantaire's heart pounds. He makes a half dozen aborted signs, _Thank you_ , _You don’t mean-_ , _It’s really nothing-_ , _I don’t-_ , _Sorry-, Did you really-_ , but doesn’t sign anything. This ethereal being disguised as a man thinks his art is _good_ , and Grantaire has to take a deep breath to steady himself and he-

Turns around and runs out of the shop.

He doesn’t expect to see Enjolras again.

* * *

 

The third time Grantaire sees Enjolras, he’s at a bar. Enjolras is standing on a table, fist raised in the air and a group of diverse supporters around him. Grantaire doesn’t know what he’s talking about but he’s drawn, like a moth to a flame, like a dying man to the light.

Enjolras is talking, ranting, _composing_ about acceptance of LGBT+ youth in communities of color like he can actually do something about it, like he can change the world from a stage, with a microphone, with words that he’s penned and now he breathes life into. Enjolras raps, speaks, _sings_ about change and the future and Tomorrow and Grantaire sees him as the god he was meant to be and he _believes_.

He slips out before Enjolras notices him, but he manages to nick a flyer for Enjolras’ activist group from someone’s pocket.

* * *

 

The fourth time Grantaire sees Enjolras isn’t a specific instance at all, just a collection of _almost_ s and _maybe_ s and _is that-?_ s. He learns that Enjolras is friends with Bahorel The Boxer, that he knows that Marius kid that Eponine used to like, that he lives somewhere near Gruber Hall, that he eats lunch in Epstein, that he buys bleach at the same store that Grantaire goes to for concealer, that he only speaks when protelyzing to a crowd. Grantaire lives off half-meetings and little facts, too afraid to move closer but too scared to run away, and he doesn’t go to the meetings nor does he throw away the flyer.

* * *

 

The fifth time Grantaire sees Enjolras, it’s because of school. Not them working together—No, Enjolras is apparently majoring in Poli Sci pre-law and fucking _Classics_ —but when Grantaire shows up to paint Cosette Fauchelevent, Enjolras is there.

“Um,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras whistles thrice over his shoulder, sharp and clear. Cosette yells something back but Grantaire doesn’t catch it, doesn’t comprehend it, because Enjolras is there in an oversized, faded, orange t-shirt and deep violet sweatpants and he’s still shining like the sun, so bright that Grantaire is sure he’ll see afterimages when he closes his eyes.

 **I didn’t know you knew Cosette** , Grantaire signs when Enjolras ushers him in, before berating himself because Enjolras probably only knows him as ‘Weird coffee shop guy’, but Enjolras doesn’t seem put off.

Enjolras signs, **You don’t have to sign, I just don’t talk** , then, **And I didn’t know that you knew Cosette**.

“She’s my model for class,” Grantaire says, gesturing to the paint he’s carrying, “We’ve had a few sessions already and the lining is all done, I just need to paint it.”

He doesn’t ask how Enjolras knows her but he signs **She’s my sister** , anyway. Grantaire looks at a picture on the wall, a younger Enjolras and Cosette. Enjolras notices his gaze and smiles. **We’re both adopted** , he signs,which isn’t exactly necessary because Cosette is 5’6 and a relatively light skinned Korean and Enjolras is 5’3 and quite possibly the darkest person that Grantaire has ever seen in their midwestern college town.

Grantaire doesn't say that though, just hums and nods. Enjolras shoots him a look, undecipherable in it’s meaning, and slips back into the apartment, towards his room or Cosette’s room or, perhaps, the room where he keeps wands or potions or spellbooks, since bewitchment is the only logical reason for Enjolras’ effect on Grantaire.

When Cosette comes out to pose, Enjolras trails after her, and Grantaire ends up painting the portrait with trembling hands as Enjolras makes small talk and compliments his art with Cosette as his mouthpiece. Later he blurs it up a bit more, makes the rough and quivering lines look intentional, tells his teacher that he was going for impressionistic, and he can very nearly believe that Enjolras meant it when he said the painting was **Beautiful**.

* * *

The sixth time Grantaire sees Enjolras, he’s at one of the meetings. They meet in the slam poetry cafe and when he gets there, the barista from before is atop the counter, getting snaps from an audience that’s as angry and responsive as she is. In between poems, they talk about what they’ll do next and how they’ll run that fundraiser and whose turn it is to ask for the protest permit. Apparently, the police hate all of them, and they wish they had someone new to go retrieve it for them. Grantaire is volunteering before he can stop himself. Enjolras’ eyes widen for a second, a flicker of recognition and something else, something warmer, but it’s gone so quickly that Grantaire might have imagined it.

 **I didn’t know you liked activism,** Enjolras signs.

Grantaire wants to ask what Enjolras knows about him, who Enjolras asked and what they told, if only because the schoolyard tune is not always so friendly towards him, but instead he says “There is a lot that you don’t know about me, Ange.”

One of the others mutters something under his breath that Grantaire can’t catch, but Enjolras spin around to glare at him. The barista snorts and introduces herself as, “Courfeyrac, she-slash-her, pleased to finally meet you.”

“Finally?” Grantaire asks.

“Finally,” Courfeyrac confirms. She doesn’t elaborate on why, no matter how long Grantaire stares her down.

He decides to come to more meetings.

* * *

The seventh, eighth, ninth, fiftieth meeting come and go, less special now that they see each other weekly and there’s heavy overlap in their friend groups. Grantaire does errands and sits in the back and basks in the light of the others, of Enjolras especially, and takes care not to call them his friends until they do so first since they all know he’s just there to ogle their avenging angel. He and Enjolras get along, most of the time, unless they’re talking about politics or activism or, well, anything Enjolras is passionate about. Grantaire’s sign language slang improves exponentially, since Enjolras’ careful use of simple signs doesn’t stick when he’s angry and Grantaire has to improve or fall behind, the latter not even being a real option since Grantaire would go to the ends of the earth with Enjolras, even if it meant running to stay in step. That’s the way it is, Courfeyrac flirts with everyone, Bahorel always comes in with bruises, no one wakes Feuilly up if he falls asleep, Grantaire and Enjolras fight; it’s just another fact of life for them.

Until it isn’t.

It’s the normal Thursday meeting and Grantaire said _something_ , he can't even remember now but it was enough to set Enjolras off and now they’re switching topics as they fight and Enjolras is so angry that he’s called a reluctant Marius over to translate his jerky, complex signs into something Grantaire can actually understand and Grantaire doesn’t even _care_ about the Affordable Care Act, okay, he’s just arguing for arguing sake and he _cannot stop_.

Grantaire is saying “The 1% worked hard to get their money and,” When Enjolras interrupts him, with his _real voice._

It’s not as strong or as big as his Slam Voice is, a mere echo of the lion's roar, but it still stings when he says, “Why are you even _here_? You sit here and fight but you don’t care about any of this, about _anything_.”

“I,” Grantaire swallows thickly, over the shock and the hurt and the _everything_ , “I have the vague ambition to care. About something.”

Enjolras huffs and turns around, a clear dismissal. Grantaire’s chest _aches_.

* * *

 

Grantaire resolves to avoid the Les Amis (Read: Enjolras) for the rest of forever, and it goes pretty well until Enjolras shows up at his door.

“Um!” Grantaire starts. Enjolras holds up a hand.

 **I’m sorry** , he starts, then makes a few aborted gestures. Most of them are too fast or too short for Grantaire to catch but he thinks he sees ‘Potential’ like three times. Enjolras settles on, **I was angry and out of line and I shouldn’t have said that.**

Grantaire opens and closes his mouth a few times. “Did- Did Combeferre tell you to apologize?”

Enjolras makes a face. **I _am_ capable of apologizing to people on my own, you know.**

Which is _technically_ true but, “You don’t though.”

 **Can I just come in?** Enjolras asks, and it registers to Grantaire how cold it is outside.

“Yeah, yeah, shit, sure you can,” Grantaire gestures Enjolras inside, turning to close and lock the door, “Yeah, but it’s fine, you know? It was my fault too, it’s whatever.”

 **It’s not whatever, it’s not fine, I** , Enjolras signs, **I, I, I** ,

“I _like you_ ,” Enjolras finishes, with the same conviction he has when he Speaks, “And-” **And I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable but-** “I really _really_ like you.”

“What.”

Enjolras huffs. **I’m not going to repeat myself**.

Grantaire runs a hand through his hair. “ _You_ like _me_? Are you sure?”

 **I’ve liked you since Jehan pointed you out. Courfeyrac threatened to tell you nine times,** Enjolras replies and _What._

“I’m sorry, I just need a second,” Grantaire says and he closes his eyes. When he opens them, he half expects to wake up, but Enjolras is still there, pulling on a curl and averting his eyes.

“Okay, so, to start, I like you too.” Enjolras’s head snaps up, blinking with wide eyes, but Grantaire continues, “I have no idea _why_ you, of all people, would like me, but I’m 100% okay with it. Also, I’d like to kiss you.”

“ _What?_ ” Enjolras squeaks out, then **Yes, you can kiss me, please, if that’s what you want.**

“Are you sure?” Grantaire asks, “Because I understand if you-”

It’s then that Enjolras cups Grantaire’s face and drags him into a kiss. It’s painful, because Enjolra just sort of shoves their faces together, and nothing like Grantaire imagined, but still nice.

Enjolras mumbles something when they part, and Grantaire only catches “like a pillow, makes me feel like a summer afternoon,” in the same cadence that he uses for his poetry, even without the volume.

“Are you composing for me, Ange?”

Enjolras makes an embarrassed noise and buries his face in Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire feels his grin go sillier, even if he hadn’t thought it possible, and if he feels Enjolras sign **Beautiful** into his chest then, well, he can hold that information for a later date

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Writing Blog](http://www.nacreousglowclouds.tumblr.com) | [Personal](http://www.bisexualwilliampoindexter.tumblr.com) | [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/nerdyfanchick)


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